


But there's no music

by RampantAnnarchy (combustspontaneously)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, combeferre goes to a boarding school, over a long period of time, teenage les amis, time jumps
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-09
Updated: 2014-11-09
Packaged: 2018-02-24 18:04:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2591075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/combustspontaneously/pseuds/RampantAnnarchy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Combeferre falls in love with Courfeyrac while he’s dancing. On several occasions, actually. Of course, Courfeyrac is the one doing all the dancing.</p><p>The first time anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But there's no music

The first time, they’re at a party, the same night Combeferre gets home from boarding school. They’re fifteen and Combeferre’s nervous. Not that he admits it. “I’m not sure this is the wisest decision,” he says instead, turning to frown at Courfeyrac, who’s still grinning blindingly up at him. They haven’t seen each other since spring break, and though they act like nothing’s changed – in many ways, they haven’t – in the months spent apart, Courfeyrac has changed. He's finally had his growth spurt, his hair tickling Combeferre’s nose when they hug. He’s not just taller though, he’s… broader. No longer is he the scrawny middle-schooler Combeferre remembers.

But he’s still Courfeyrac, so when he shows up at Combeferre’s door with Enjolras already in tow (and looking rather miserable), there’s little Combeferre has the power to say no to.

“Please tell him it’s a bad idea,” Enjolras pouts, crossing his arms irritably across his chest.

Courfeyrac slaps at his shoulder and makes a noise of protest. “Come on, ‘Ferre. It’s Giana’s end-of-school party – _the_ legendary party of the year. We’re the only freshmen who got invited, and there’s no way I’m going without you two there with me. There won’t even be any alcohol. Please?”

Combeferre takes one look at Enjolras resigned frown and Courfeyrac’s pleading pout and makes his decision.

The next thing he knows he’s standing at the edge of Giana Elton’s basement holding a cup of suspiciously alcoholic-smelling beverage, despite Courfeyrac’s insistence that there wouldn’t be any. Enjolras slinked off a few moments ago, disappearing into the kitchen. There’s some loud arguing coming from that general direction, but Combeferre’s inclined to let Enjolras have this one. He didn’t come to babysit after all.

He’s not entirely sure what he’s here for at all, actually. He lost Courfeyrac moments before, when he was dragged away by a girl Combeferre didn’t recognize to go say hello to someone else he didn’t recognize. Combeferre knows boarding school was a sound parenting decision, given his parent’s work-necessitated travel, but sometimes… sometimes it makes coming home that much harder. There’s only so much catching up one can do before they just give up on the endeavor entirely. It isn’t Courfeyrac’s fault at all, of course. He had even tried to pull Combeferre along with him, but Combeferre just smiled and waved him off. He didn’t come to be babysat either.

Courfeyrac isn’t lying about being the only freshmen there. Combeferre’s at least as tall as some of them there, and carries the weight of someone perhaps a bit older than he, but Courfeyrac still shows all the signs of youth. It’s in the unabashed grin he flashes at anyone he likes (read: everyone), the loose, happy sprawl of his still scrawny limbs, and the way he moves like he’s still trying to figure them out.

He dances like that, too.

He’s trying to stay out of the way of all the groping couples leaning up against the rough brick walls, moving several times when someone’s hands or mouth or breathy sighs get too close for comfort. He’s only just gotten back from the kitchen where Enjolras is still wrapped up in a heated debate with a boy not much older than them, with a strong jaw and a smirk that seems to smolder. Combeferre wants no part in whatever mess that’s going to end up in.

So he finally just goes back to the basement, resigned to a night of wall-hugging, if it means the happiness of the two most important people in the world to him. He hasn’t seen Courfeyrac in a while – and then he does.

He’s dancing on a table – there isn’t much room on the floor – with a girl Combeferre vaguely remembers from middle school. He’s all loose limbs and shimmying shoulders. He looks ridiculous. Combeferre smiles despite himself and ignores the twinge in his chest.

xx

The next time it happens, it’s the winter of their junior year. Combeferre had gone home for the summer beforehand, but due to a storm, his plane was delayed, and he just barely missed Giana Elton’s legendary end-of-summer party. There hadn’t been any other opportunity for dancing that summer and Combeferre hasn’t (really) given thought about that one night anyway. Christmas Eve rolls around and his parents throw a party. Courfeyrac saves him just in time to avoid a kiss from Great-aunt Margareta. “Mrs. and Mr. Combeferre,” he drops into a sweeping bow that could made any debutante teacher cry with pride. Combeferre’s mom even smiles (it isn’t a common occurrence). “If it wouldn’t be too much of a bother, could I tear your son away for the evening? It’s rare we get to spend time together in person.”

Enjolras is waiting outside when his parents finally relinquished him. They aren’t big fans of his, ever since gossip spread that he had gotten arrested for a demonstration that he may or may not have organized (he did; the lawyer begged them to stop admitting to it so forthright).

“Finally,” he says, blowing out a billowy gust of white air as if he’s been waiting out here for hours (it had been less than ten minutes).

They walk with no particular purpose, talking about everything from what Courfeyrac’s mom is wearing this year (a giant sweater-dress with pink pompoms) to what Grantaire said at the last meeting (Enjolras rants about this at length; Combeferre hardly has the heart to stop him). They end up in the park.

It’s quiet for a while. There’s no one else out, so late, and in such cold weather. They’re all bundled up – Courfeyrac especially. He always complains it’s too cold, being from the sunny beaches of Brazil. Still, Combeferre can tell he’s grown even more since they’ve last seen each other. He’s stopped growing vertically – Courfeyrac bemoans taking after his mother often and loudly – but his shoulders are broader, and his limbs more coordinated. Freckles still splatter across his skin in the middle of winter, and his skin seems warmer in contrast to the blue cold of the air around them. Even at sixteen, he hasn’t lost the unabashedly cheerful grin that always seems nearby, and for that Combeferre is endlessly grateful, even if it’s for reasons he has yet to discern himself. Perhaps it’s just nice to know that some things stay the same, even if it seems everything else is changing. Combeferre tells himself that the strange feeling stirring in his gut is just longing for the way things used to be.

Enjolras gets a text not long after, from Grantaire.

“He wants to see me,” he says, frowning. Combeferre doesn’t need to ask to know it’s Grantaire; he can tell from the face Enjolras makes once he sees the name that pops up on the screen, confused and frustrated. The very epitome of teen angst.

“Go,” Combeferre says, to the surprise of all in company, including himself. “You never know. It could be an emergency.”

“Yeah,” Courfeyrac says, a beat behind. “We’ll talk to you tomorrow. Go mend your lovers’ quarrels.”

It says a lot that Enjolras doesn’t bother to correct him, just swings his mouth shut into a determined line and promises to call them both later.

“We should dance,” Courfeyrac says, as they’re watching Enjolras’ red coat get swallowed up into the darkness.

“What?” Combeferre says, and resists adding that there’s no music, because that’s a cliché, and he refuses.

Besides, Courfeyrac pulls out his phone and meddles with it until the last thing he was listening to starts playing. It’s Kesha, but one of her older songs, a little melancholy lost in the melody. “Dance with me,” he says, and it’s not a question.

Combeferre stands, and immediately has no idea what to do with his limbs. If Courfeyrac has grown into his body, Combeferre has grown out of it, suddenly and all at once. He has no idea where to put his hands, his legs, his arms. He manages to keep a calm and vaguely amused expression but only just.

Courfeyrac knows exactly what to do, and does it wildly, beautifully. He jumps around and shouts the wrong lyrics at the top of his lungs and sways his hips in a way that makes Combeferre’s throat constrict. He grabs Combeferre by the waist and makes him dance too, pulling him this way and that, leaving him no choice but to jump and shout and spin in the dark as the snow falls slowly, wetly around them.

After that song ends, another begins, and they dance until their voices go hoarse and Combeferre can barely feel his feet.

Finally they hit a song that’s too slow to jump around to, too foreign to sing along to. So they settle for swaying.

Courfeyrac grabs him by the waist again, and this time he doesn’t jump, or spin, or shout. He just grabs onto his sweater, closes his eyes, and hums underneath his breath this song that Combeferre doesn’t know and pulls him close.

“It’s midnight,” he says after a while, even after the song is finished and they’ve burned through half a dozen, still swaying as the snow falls gently, sweetly around them. “Aren’t you going to kiss me?”

Courfeyrac says this kind of stuff all the time. He says these things to everyone, often and loudly, and it shouldn’t make Combeferre’s breath catch in his throat and heart squeeze painfully against his ribs. He knows that the way Courfeyrac’s voice sounds low and throaty has everything to do with the way he’s been shouting and singing all night and nothing to do with actually wanting Combeferre, but it’s not fair. Combeferre closes his eyes.

“That’s only for New Year’s, Courfeyrac.”

He hums. He sounds so close. “Killjoy.”

When actual New Year’s finally rolls around, Courfeyrac kisses a girl Combeferre doesn’t know and Combeferre walks home alone.

He should have kissed him.

xx

It’s the summer after junior year and Courfeyrac has broken up with his boyfriend, and the girl from the New Year’s Eve party has already been long forgotten (by everyone but Combeferre).

Enjolras is utterly besotted with Grantaire, and they’re working out long-distance while Grantaire attends the art college three hours away that they nearly broke up over (Enjolras begged him to apply, even filling out an application for him; Grantaire had not been pleased).

Combeferre has had various sexual encounters (he goes to an all-boys boarding school in freezing Switzerland – it was inevitable, really), but no relationships, former or present, to speak of.

They all go see Grantaire, Eponine, and Feuilly off to their respective universities, Enjolras going with Grantaire to help him unpack (and probably to have filthy sex in his new dorm room). Afterwards, they all go back to Courfeyrac’s to cry and mourn the loss of their friends (until Thanksgiving break anyway). The rest of them are juniors waiting to be seniors, except for Cosette, who’s a rising junior herself.

After a while they all drift off to their various homes to drink or smoke or whatever it is they want to do, but won’t in Courf’s house with his mom downstairs cooking.

He gets the strong impression that Courf wants to join them, and is only restraining because Combeferre’s home for the holidays and has made it quietly clear that he’d rather not participate. He appreciates it though, and if he were any less selfish he would tell him to go without him. But he is, incredibly, undeniably selfish, so he stays instead. They don’t talk, really. They sit together on Courfeyrac’s bed in companionable silence, feeling Enjolras’ absence, though they don’t say it. They don’t do many things without him, though he knows the two of them must do plenty of things without _him_ during the school year. He tries not to feel jealous, but feels it pulling at him anyway.

Courfeyrac, noticing Combeferre’s suddenly souring mood, mistakes it for sadness at their friends’ departure and springs to his feet. He taps out some commands on a remote and an old stereo in the corner starts playing Dean Martin, smooth, jazzy music pouring into the empty space.

“I learned how to waltz during the school year,” Courfeyrac says lieu of asking him to dance, and Combeferre gets to his feet anyway.

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” Courfeyrac murmurs, and steps into Combeferre’s space to take his hand.

They waltz. Combeferre stumbles over his feet and steps on Courfeyrac’s, but by the second song he has it, and he doesn’t know what’s worse. The steps become easy as they imprint into muscle memory, and after a while, it becomes more and more difficult to ignore how close Courfeyrac’s face is to his. He notices the way Courfeyrac’s eyelashes brush against his cheeks when he blinks, the way his freckles cluster in the outer corner of his left eye, and tries to keep his breath steady and even.

“Combeferre,” he says, and his eyelashes brush across his cheeks.

“Yes?” Combeferre tries to ignore the way his heart is galloping in his chest.

“I learned how to kiss during the school year, too.”

“Oh?” Combeferre says, brave for the bare second it takes for their lips to touch. Courfeyrac’s mouth is soft and yielding; nothing like the boys that sometimes shared Combeferre’s bed at school, with their insistent lips and roaming hands.

His breath stutters into Combeferre’s mouth and together they dance.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I seem to be obsessed with writing things that aren't for my nanowrimo, so as I fall desperately, awfully behind on that, have some new courferre!
> 
> Also, this is my first time posting anything from this ship, so I hope I did it justice.
> 
> Find me at connorwvalsh on tumblr!


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